


This Charming Man

by peachchild



Category: Girl Interrupted (1999), Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-09-12
Updated: 2011-09-12
Packaged: 2017-12-08 15:07:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,719
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/762781
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/peachchild/pseuds/peachchild
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Arthur is asked why he is going to Claymoor, all he can say is "I'm sad." Written for the <a href="http://reel-merlin.livejournal.com/profile"><img class="i-ljuser-userhead"/></a><a class="i-ljuser-username" href="http://reel-merlin.livejournal.com/"></a><b>reel_merlin</b> challenge, based on the film <i>Girl, Interrupted</i>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Arthur slides a cigarette between his lips, lights it with a flick of his thumb on the wheel of his lighter. The gravel crunches beneath the wheels of the car, and his fingers press tight around the filter, the sound reminding him a little too thoroughly of Uther’s teeth – the way they ground over the ice in his scotch as Gaius told him the diagnosis, the way they pressed tight against the inside of his lips when the psychiatrist made his suggestion for treatment – so he leans forward, taps the driver on the shoulder. “Would you mind turning up the music?”

“Not at all.” He reaches for the dial, touches it up a notch, and Arthur settles back again, taking a long drag of his Marlboro, touching the window down to tap his ashes out the window. The Smiths wind their way out of the speakers. ( _“I would go out tonight but I haven’t got a stitch to wear. This man said, “It’s gruesome that someone so handsome should care.”_ ) The driver keeps glancing at him in the rearview mirror. Arthur isn’t bothered. He purses his lips around the smoke that drifts from his mouth, watches it slide out the crack in the window. “What’s wrong with you?”

His eyes flick over to the reflection of the driver’s eyes. He doesn’t know the man; he once knew his father’s drivers all by name, but lately, he seemed to have trouble remembering his own. “Pardon?”

“What’s wrong with you – that you’re going to Claymoore? You look normal enough.”

“Ah.” Arthur tosses the butt out the window, watches through the side view mirror as it crashes in a spark of fire and light on the road behind the car. “Evidently, I’m sad.”

The driver chuckles. “We’re all sad.”

Arthur’s lips quirk up at the corner, tilts his head to watch the building draw up over them. From the CD player, Morrissey tells him what a charming man he is.

***

“I didn’t try to kill myself.” He corrects the receptionist. “I had a headache. I was drunk. I didn’t realize how much I’d taken.”

Alice looks at him over the rims of her glasses. “That is something to be discussed with your doctor, Mr. Pendragon. I’m sure Dr. Gaius is much more qualified to on that subject than I am.”

“I don’t understand why I couldn’t just see him from home. He’s been our family psychiatrist for years.”

“Dr. Gaius believes you would be well-suited to a rest here for a little while; you will be in a safe, calm environment where you can focus completely on your recovery, without any outside interruptions or distractions. Your file says you’d like to be a writer. Perhaps you could do a bit of that while you’re here, hm?” She smiles at him, sliding a fountain pen toward him across the desk along with the consent form she’s explained to him at length.

His eyelids lower, his jaw ticking, but he takes it up anyway, scrawling his name in unnecessarily large script at the bottom of the page and pushing it back at her without meeting her eyes.

“Excellent.” She pushes her chair back, standing. “Now that that’s squared away, I’ll have Gwen give you a little tour.” As if on cue, a small, dark-haired girl with coffee-colored skin slips into the room, nodding a little at him. Alice hands over his file. “Good luck to you, Mr. Pendragon. If you have any questions about anything, don’t hesitate to ask any of the other nurses.”

***

Gwen has a smattering of freckles across her nose. Arthur tries to count them, but she moves too quickly, flitting from room to room and gesturing with wide sweeps of her arms at the various amenities available to the patients. (“Do you follow any programs? Many of the patients do, so of course there’s access to a television. And we have an extensive library, if you enjoy reading, which I’m sure you do, since you’re a writer. And you’re allowed to decorate your room any way you like, as long as it doesn’t disturb your roommate or infringe on his space at all – and of course nothing offensive or potentially triggering for other patients.”) She finally leaves him to his own devices within a small, bleach-white room.

His bags have been deposited on his bed, and he traces their zippers, considers unpacking, but ultimately decides to dump them both onto the floor to be dealt with later. He flops down on his back on the bed, thinks about having another cigarette, but doesn’t do that either. There’s no telling how long he lies there before the door is flung open; he startles, sitting up abruptly, as a thin young man comes barreling into the room, eyes wild. “Where’s Will?”

Arthur blinks at him. “What?”

He curls his upper lip, eyebrows drawing together over bright eyes. “ _Where_ is _Will_? That was his bed! When I left, this was his room!”

“I have no idea to whom you’re referring.”

“Merlin, mate…” A shaggy-haired man leans against the doorframe, his hand stuffed into the pocket of his jeans. “You’ve gotta go talk to Gwen.”

Merlin turns to stare at him, silent for a long time.

“He didn’t.” He whispers, shaking his head. “He isn’t. He didn’t!” He shoves his way out of the room, shouting the name of the young nurse. He must find her relatively quickly, because there’s some indiscernible shouting and then a gutting kind of wail.

“What the _hell_ was that?” Arthur demands, pushing himself to his feet.

“That was Merlin.” The man shakes his hair out of his face. “He got out last week – not released, mind you, just got out. Ran away, you could say. They just found him this morning.” He points at Arthur’s bed. “That is where Will used to sleep.”

“Who’s Will?”

“Will was Merlin’s best friend. But when he ran away, he hanged himself.”

Arthur’s breath punches out of him. “What?”

“Mmm. And you’ve got his bed. Unlucky, that.”

He sits back down on the edge of his bed, stares at the empty side of the room. “Where’s his roommate?”

“That would be me. I’m the one who found him, you know. And now I’m to be your roommate. Gwaine.”

He nods. “Arthur.” He tilts his head up to peer at him. “Will he – Merlin – will he be alright?”

Gwaine shrugs, moves across the room to toss himself on his own bed. “Who knows in this place, mate?”

Arthur figures that’s true enough.

***

“So tell me, Arthur.” Gaius slides his fingers together, presses them neatly on the paper stacked in front of him on his desk. “What would you like to accomplish while you’re here?”

Arthur tilts his head to the side, looks at him through his eyelashes. “I’m not certain how I’m supposed to answer that. Aren’t _you_ supposed to be solving my problems for me?”

“No. You are here to learn skills.”

“Skills?”

“Skills.” The psychiatrist agrees. “Skills to help you learn to live happily and with ease in the world.”

Arthur frowns. “How can anyone live happily and easily in the world? It’s a heinous place.”

“Ah, that is your illness speaking.”

“What exactly _is_ my illness, doctor?”

Gaius presses his lips together for a moment, is silent. “You will learn skills.” He repeats, instead of answering the question. “You say that the world is a heinous place. If it’s so heinous, how do so many people live such happy lives in it?”

Arthur scoffs. “Who’s happy? I don’t know a single person in the world who can call themselves that.”

Gaius sighs. “Those are the words of a very sad young man, Mr. Pendragon.”

Arthur swallows, turns to look out the window. “So what is the cure for sadness, Gaius? Can you fix me?”

“You aren’t broken, Arthur. You don’t need fixing. And even if you did, I cannot fix you. This falls completely on your shoulders. If you don’t want to be well, there is nothing I can do to help guide you toward wellness. If you do want to be well, I will do my very best to help you reach that goal. Which is it going to be?” Arthur doesn’t answer, and from the expression on Gaius’s face, he didn’t particularly expect one. “You’re a writer, yes? I would like you to spend fifteen minutes each evening detailing the feelings you’ve had throughout the day, and what caused them. When we see each other on Thursday, we will discuss them. You may go.”

***

Freya has a fey face, with large dark eyes and alabaster skin, full lips and high cheekbones. She watches Arthur as he wanders aimlessly through the sitting room, her gaze fluttering between his face and the burning cigarette in his hand. He watches her too, his eyes trained fully on her face so that he won’t look too closely at the scars twisting up her arms.

She won’t speak to him, but Gwaine has told him all about her – the way her father poured lighter fluid over her when she was eight, then tossed a match – the soft rabbit way she creeps through the hospital, permanently regressed – the fact that she will live here for the rest of her life – and he can’t help but look at her, since she looks at him, like he’s intruding on a place she has finally deemed safe, the fox worming into her rabbit hole.

His view of her is suddenly blocked by a lanky figure, and he lifts his eyes to the face of the young man – Merlin – whose expression – eyebrows lowered, lips pressed together – is hard to define. His eyes – blue, bright – rake over his face for a moment, and then he smiles, toothy, a dimple carving itself into one cheek. “Hello.”

Arthur takes a step back. “Hello?”

“I’m Merlin. I’m sorry; I don’t think I introduced myself properly yesterday.”

“No, I’d say you didn’t.”

He chuckles, dips his head. “You’re Arthur. Gwaine told me about you. You don’t snore – he likes that.”

“Er – I’m glad that makes him happy?” Arthur offers uncertainly.

He shrugs – thin shoulders beneath a thinner t-shirt. “You’re one of the normal ones, aren’t you?”

“Pardon?”

He tilts his head to the side, doesn’t answer for a long moment. “You’re very handsome.”

Arthur blinks. “I – thank you.”

“That’s why Freya looks at you. She’s afraid of you because you’re handsome.”

He frowns. “Why does that make her afraid of me?”

“I don’t know. I’m not afraid of you though. I like you.”

“You just met me. And didn’t you yell at me yesterday?”

“Oh.” Merlin drops his eyes. “That wasn’t anything to do with you. Anyway, Gwaine likes you, and Gwaine’s got good taste. Do you have grounds privileges?”

“Oh. Yeah.”

“Good.” He flashes a grin at him. “Come on.” He takes his hand, shouts to Gwen that they’re going to the garden, and hauls him off.

***

The garden isn’t particularly impressive – a single flowerbed and a large expanse of grass. Gwaine is kicking a football around with Percy; a nurse is watching carefully from a position on a bench nearby.

“Did you attempt then?” Merlin tumbles into the grass, folding his long legs in some semblance of a lotus position. He plucks Arthur’s pack of cigarettes from his pocket and has one to his lips before Arthur can protest. Instead, he holds the flame for Merlin to lean into, lighting it for him. Merlin’s long fingers curl easily around the filter, and his cheeks hollow out with each deep pull on the fag. “Suicide, I mean. You don’t have any scars or anything.” He touches his fingertips to Arthur’s arm as if in demonstration of this.

“No,” he murmurs, tracing his profile with his eyes. “I just had a headache was all.”

“Oh.” Merlin frowns at him, full lower lip pushed out. “Did someone find you?”

“No. Well, yes. I ended up being sick. When my father realized why, I was taken to hospital.”

Merlin’s eyes drop again, falling somewhere near Arthur’s hand, where it rests on his knee. “I’m sure he was very worried.”

“Yes, yes. He was quite worried.” Arthur’s lips quirk up, a breath huffing out through his nose. (“What kind of idiot are you?” Uther demanded, pushing Arthur roughly onto his back with a firm hand against his shoulder, and Arthur blinked up at him through a haze of blue, like spray paint across his retinas, the smell of vomit drifting up to him from the bin. His father shook the bottle of aspirin at him, and Arthur thought about how hollow it sounded, rattling around in his brain like that. “Do you realize what you’ve done? How could you be so stupid?”)

Merlin tilts his head at him, like a puppy trying to understand the words his human keeps saying to him. He doesn’t speak.

Arthur clears his throat. “What about you? What’s your story?”

“Ah.” Merlin looks out toward Gwaine and Percival’s football match. “Nothing so interesting as yours.” He turns a blinding smile on him. “You want to get some ice cream?”

“Where will we-?” Merlin’s on his feet, scuttling off through the tall grass. Arthur glances over at the nurse (she is busy chiding Percy for impulsively punching Gwaine right across the mouth; Gwaine is lying on his back in the grass, red-faced with laughter and blood) before scrambling up and running after him. He catches him at the edge of the woods. “Are we going to get in trouble for this?”

Merlin shrugs. “We have grounds privileges. We’re just changing the definition of ‘grounds’ a little bit.”

Arthur jerks to a halt, frowning. “I don’t have any interest in breaking the rules.”

“Oh, come on!” Merlin frowns back at him. “I do it all the time.”

“Gwaine says you’re in solitary constantly.”

“Gwaine needs to keep his mouth shut,” he snaps back. His smile returns full-force, and he wanders over closer to him. “Come _on_. I wouldn’t do anything that could get you in trouble. You can trust me!”

Arthur twists his mouth up, peers back toward the building. The nurse is looking around, presumably in search of them. He turns toward Merlin again. The boy’s face seems to have closed in, eyebrows low, mouth turned down. “I’m sorry; I don’t think we should.”

Merlin snorts and brushes back him, trudging up toward the garden, and Arthur follows behind. They nod at the nurse as they pass, as if they’d been doing nothing wrong, and part ways inside. Merlin drapes himself across Lance’s lap on the couch in the TV room. Arthur closes the door to his bedroom and doesn’t come out until dinner.

***

The antidepressants keep him awake, but he likes them better than the ones that make him feel sick with drowsy blankness, so he doesn’t ask Gaius to change his prescription again. By his second week, he can’t sleep at all. The bed creaks each time he tosses, rolls over, flops onto his back, then his stomach, and Gwaine eventually throws a book at him. “Keep it the fuck down; some of us do want to sleep.”

Arthur cradles his shoulder, where the meat of the book smacked him, and rolls himself off his bed, sliding his notebook off the nightstand, and creeps barefoot toward the door. The orderlies have retreated to a back corner of the office, where they crowd around a small TV, watching some watershed program. He wanders past, curls up on a corner of the couch and props the notebook on his knees. He touches his pen to the page, but between the soft murmur of the TV and the dry burn of his eyes, no words pass through him, just fuzz in his brain.

“Can’t sleep?” He jumps, turns his eyes up to Merlin, who leans over the back of the couch, smiling lightly.

“No.” He rubs the heel of his hand into his eyes. “What’re you doing up?”

Merlin shrugs, launches himself over the back of the couch and lands, all bones, on Arthur’s feet. “Didn’t try to sleep. This place is best at night, as long as they don’t catch you. Sometimes, Gwaine and I’ll sneak out through this passage they have under the building and get drunk in town. Well, we used to, before they started taking Gwaine’s clothes away – now the people in town always call the hospital when we’re about.” He rests his chin on Arthur’s propped knee, frowning. “You haven’t slept in a few nights, have you? You look very tired. I can help you with that.” He brightens, fishes into the pocket of his jeans. When he holds out his hand, two blue pills lie in his palm.

Arthur draws back a little, eying them. “What are they?”

“Valium!” He beams. “They’ll put you right to sleep if you’ve never taken them before, promise. You’ll sleep like a baby. I’ll take one too.”

“Are they yours?”

“No, they’re Freya’s, but I traded her.”

“What did she get?”

“Oh, one of my anti-psychotics.” He waves his hand as if shooing a fly. “She doesn’t like taking the Valium anyway. It gives her nightmares. But it probably won’t give you nightmares. I think Freya just has nightmares anyway because she’s Freya. What do you think?”

Arthur blinks. “About what?”

“About taking one! It’ll be fine, I promise.”

“I don’t know.” He chews his lip. “And it’ll be okay? You’ll do it too?”

“I said that, didn’t I?” Merlin grins wolfishly, and something warm unfurls in Arthur’s chest. He takes one of the pills, and the thin boy tosses his into the back of his throat to swallow it, exposing a long neck and sharp jaw, a bobbing Adam’s apple and rabbit-quick pulse. Arthur slides his own chalky pill past his tongue, winces as he pushes it dry down his throat. Immediately, Merlin has curled himself up against Arthur’s side, his fingers tapping out a cadence on his chest. “It’s okay, you know.”

“What is?”

“Being here. Well, it’s not _okay_ but it could be worse. You could be dead.”

Arthur’s lips quirk, and his arm settles lightly against the curve of Merlin’s hip. “How do you know that would be worse?”

Merlin’s quiet for a long moment, and then he begins to laugh – a high-pitched giggle – as he noses at Arthur’s neck. “Good point. I’m certainly using that logic in the wrong place.”

He smiles. “Don’t you ever want to die?”

The laughter cuts off, like a knife through the air – swift and smooth. “Sometimes I feel like I already have.”

Arthur doesn’t know what to say that, so he doesn’t speak; instead he closes his eyes to the soft wool the medicine has begun to close over his head.

He wakes around dawn, his head cushioned on Merlin’s stomach, to Gwen shaking his shoulder and frowning down at him. Arthur loses his television privileges for the week – which is fine since he can’t say he’s watched any television since he arrived – and Merlin has to spend the day in solitary.

When Arthur asks Gwen why their punishments are so vastly different, she casts a look ripe with disappointment at the solitary room at the end of the hall as she hands out morning doses to the patients, from which Merlin can be heard loudly singing (“ _It’s been a hard day’s night, and I’ve been working like a dog!_ ”). “Merlin’s a good boy, really; he just doesn’t seem to want to behave. He needs to realize that the more he acts out, the more trouble he’ll get himself into.” Her gaze sharpens as it turns back to him. “And don’t you go letting him drag you into trouble with him; he’s done that with enough of the patients. Here’s your medicine.”

Arthur tosses it into the back of his throat and wanders back toward his room.

***

“What do you write about?” Merlin’s blue eyes slide up to Arthur’s face as he brings his cigarette (stolen again from Arthur’s pack) to his lips. “Stories?”

He lifts a shoulder in a shrug, watches his red mouth close around the filter. “Sometimes.”

“Sometimes?” Merlin grins, rolls over to tuck his face in against Arthur’s thigh, his chaotic limbs curled in as close as possible to his body. Arthur is sure Merlin’s tapping his ash onto his jeans. “What’re you writing right now? Is right now ‘sometimes’?”

“No, right now I’m writing a letter.”

“A letter?” He brightens, like sunshine is suddenly backlighting his face. “Who are you writing a letter to?”

“My father.”

“Oh.” His nose wrinkles up with distaste the same way it does when he finds something amusing; Arthur is often unsure if the emotions are actually separate for him. “I thought maybe you had a prison pen pal or secret girlfriend or something.”

“I don’t know anyone in prison – except one of my dad’s old friends; she was taken in for tax evasion. But anyway, I wouldn’t write to her; I’m forbidden to even mention her around our house. And girlfriends – well, those aren’t really my thing.”

“Should’ve known.” Gwaine pipes up from where he’s cheating at the game of chess he’s playing against Lance. “Lance is the only other person who lets Merlin get all touchy like that, and Lance is gay.”

“I’m pansexual.” Lance deadpans, not looking up from the board. “It means I’ll date anyone, regardless of gender or sex or anything.”

“Including Gwen, the nurse.” Gwaine sneers.

“We aren’t dating.”

“No, just fucking.”

“Gwaine!” Merlin chides, barking out laughter. “Look at Lance’s poor red face. You’re embarrassing the boy.”

Gwaine shrugs. “We practically live up each other’s arses in this place; we’ve no dignity left for any of us to feel any sort of embarrassment about anything.”

Merlin hums in agreement, rolls onto his back again to peer up at Arthur. “Are _you_ embarrassed to talk about fucking, Arthur?”

Hearing that word from his lips, seeing the way it forms on his mouth – with teeth pressed into a full lip – has heat flushing down Arthur’s neck. He clears his throat. “I can’t say I am.”

Merlin grins slowly (Arthur’s beginning to think it’s his default expression). “I didn’t think so. Will you write me a letter?”

He frowns. “You live down the hall from me, Merlin.”

“That doesn’t mean I wouldn’t like a letter. When you get out of here, you could write me letters from home?”

“How do you know I’ll get out first?”

“It’s not a matter of ‘first.’” Gwaine pipes up, leaning back in his chair and drawing his socked foot up onto the seat. “People like me and Merlin and Freya – we’re lifers. We’ll be here forever. You’re just one of those blokes that realized how fucked this world is, right? You tried to off yourself. That’s curable.”

Arthur doesn’t know what to say, so he doesn’t say anything. Merlin squeezes his knee. “Don’t worry, Arthur. I like you anyway.”

It hadn’t even occurred to him that being curable meant he might not.

***

“So I hear you’ve taken up company with Merlin.” Gaius adjusts some papers on his desk, peers at Arthur over the rims of his glasses.

“Are you going to tell me I need to be careful of him too?” Arthur slides down lower in his chair, huffing around the cigarette he’s working on lighting. “Because believe me, I’ve heard it. And let me tell you: I resent how much everyone seems to be worried about the company I keep here. I feel as if I’m in primary school again, being told which friends are the ‘right’ ones to spend time with.”

“That isn’t it at all, Arthur.” Gaius hauls himself out of his chair, moves around to perch across from him in the armchair designated to him for their meetings. “I am certain that you two could have some influence on each other. Of course, it is my fear that Merlin’s trouble-making tendencies will rub off on you, but perhaps your seriousness will rub off on him a little as well. Arthur,” he takes off his glasses, as any psychiatrist in any film would, “your father wanted to put you away somewhere private for a rest after your… incident. I suggested it may be better for you to be in an environment with others.”

Arthur’s brow draws together, and he shakes his head. “Why?”

“I think it will be good for you to see the experiences some of these other people have been through, to put your own in perspective.”

“I…” He presses his lips together. “I don’t understand. Are my… experiences not real?”

“Of course they’re real, Arthur.”

“Then why do they need to be put into perspective? Why can’t I feel how I feel about them? I thought you were supposed to help me deal with my feelings better.”

“I am, Arthur. Part of that process is realizing that things aren’t as bad as they seem.”

“So you’re using my – the fact that I feel _sorry_ for these people to fix everything?” He throws his arm out in a sweeping gesture, scattering ashes across the carpet. “What about them? Do you even help them or are they just – pawns to help the curable ones?”

“Don’t be so dramatic, Arthur.” Gaius sighs, setting his glasses back on his nose. “And don’t buy into anyone’s ideas about curability. Every person here is capable of having a life independent of this hospital. It’s all a matter of effort.”

Arthur grits his teeth. “Are we through?”

The doctor eyes him for a moment, then nods. “Yes, Arthur, we’re through.”

He propels himself out of his chair with his arms, heading straight for the door. He stalks down the hallway toward Merlin’s room, finds him coming out of one of the other psychiatrist’s rooms – Morgause, he thinks – and his eyes are a dark blue, rimmed red, shining. “Merlin. Are you –?”

He shakes his head, starts down the hall, pauses, turns back toward Arthur, and throws himself at him, tucking his face in against his shoulder. Arthur stumbles back a step and catches him, petting his hair lightly while he sobs softly against his shoulder. He twists his hand in Arthur’s shirt, his voice cracking hoarsely on the edge of each word. “I don’t know why they keep telling me something’s wrong with me. I’m not so bad, right?” He lifts his head, stares up at him. “I’m – I’m not _crazy_.”

Arthur hushes him gently, swallowing down the bile crawling up his throat, and leads him back to his room. He reclines on Merlin’s bed, and Merlin wraps around him, resting his head on his stomach and sniffling while Arthur pets his hair.

***

“When I was little, my mum used to tell me that I was magic.” Merlin lies flat on the floor, peering up at the ceiling. His mouth twitches a little, a smile. “My dad left when I was four, and I was inconsolable – from what I understand anyway; I’m not sure how it feels to be inconsolable about an absent father. It was a long time ago, after all.” He shifts, rearranges his shoulder blades against the sharp ache of the wood floor.

Arthur taps his cigarette against the edge of his ashtray, frowning. “I have a father, and I think I’d be rather the opposite of inconsolable if he was absent.”

Merlin barks out a laugh, arching his spine a little, and he scrambles off the floor and onto Arthur’s bed when he’s made it clear enough that he is uncomfortable that Arthur wiggles over to make room for him to sit. “I’m sure you love your father.” He nicks the fag from Arthur’s hand, brings it to his mouth with the turn of an elegant wrist, the filter pressed between index finger and thumb. “He comes to visit you, doesn’t he? I’ve seen you shake hands outside of Gaius’s office. He’s a big man. Broad. You’re like him that way.”

“I’m not that big.” He scoffs, closes his fingers around Merlin’s hand and draws the cigarette over toward his mouth, sucking a drag from it. “I barely even stand as tall as him.”

“So you’re softer. That’s nothing to be ashamed of.” He shrugs. “I look too much like my dad. He was tall like me – is, I suppose. I assume he’s still alive out there somewhere. Dark. Thin. Me, basically. Once he left, I wanted to grow up and look nothing at all like him, because I wanted to be nothing like him.”

“You aren’t like him.” Arthur says quietly. “You wouldn’t desert anybody.”

“How d’you know?” He peers at him, head tilted to the side, puppy-like. “I could’ve deserted loads of people before I ended up in here.” He snorts out laughter almost before the end of the sentence. “Not that I’ve had many people to desert – just my mum, and I wouldn’t do that to her.” He pauses, and when he begins again, his voice is quiet. “I suppose I deserted Will. That was the worst thing I could’ve done. We were alike, you know. We both grew up fatherless. His was dead though – died in Iraq.”

“Did he kill himself because you were gone?”

Merlin picks at the blankets, closing his eyes for a moment; he opens them to focus them on the ceiling. “I can’t help but think so. He had trouble with people, had trouble connecting to them. We were only friends because I barge my way into people’s lives, and then I tumbled right out of his again, because I ran away.”

Arthur squeezes Merlin’s wrist. “Why did you run away?”

“I just wanted to see something other than these white walls, just for a few days.” He gestures around them. “I had every intention of coming back. I really didn’t expect the police to catch me. I suppose they thought I was dangerous, because of the psychosis. But I just wanted to spend some time in the sunshine, knowing I didn’t have to go back to a place they’re telling me I’ll never be ready to leave.”

“Why don’t you think they’ll let you leave?”

“I told you – the psychosis.” Merlin flashes a grin at him. “At any rate, Gwaine seems to think that I’ll be here forever and he’s usually right about these kinds of things.”

“What is it with Gwaine anyway? He seems so normal to me.”

“Ah,” Merlin shrugs. “He’s a sociopath. Doesn’t much care for right and wrong. Knows about them – just doesn’t care.”

“Oh.” Arthur frowns. “But… he’s so nice.”

“He is.” He laughs softly, knocking his shoulder into Arthur’s. “Sociopaths can be nice. But they have no problem with being mean too. He makes Freya cry a lot, because he calls her ‘Torch.’ Sometimes it doesn’t bother her, but for the most part, it really upsets her.”

“And he doesn’t stop doing it because he doesn’t really care that it hurts her feelings.”

“Right.” Merlin snaps his fingers, his eyes wandering. “Have you written anything since you’ve been here? Besides the letter to your father?”

“Oh. I have to write down my feelings and what makes me feel them.”

“How dull. Do you ever write about me? Do I make you feel any _feelings_ , Arthur?”

“You’re very self-involved.” He pushes at Merlin’s arm, and laughs softly when the boy sways. “But if you must know, yes, I do write about you. Mostly I write about how irritating you are in the afternoon when I’m trying to have a nap.”

“You’re just so cute when you’re sleeping.” Merlin pinches his cheek, unfolds himself from the bed. “Come on. We have places to be.”

“We do not.”

“I promised Gwaine that you would play him in chess today. _He_ promised he wouldn’t cheat, as long as you agreed.”

“Why should I want to play him?”

“He’s promised me his Valium if we win.”

“Why do _you_ get to have it if _I_ win it?”

“Because I’ll share it with you of course. And I’ve bet your anti-depressants so you might as well play so I don’t have to steal them from you if I play and lose.”

Arthur sighs. “You’re both troublemakers.”

“And you’re our favorite enabler. Is that a yes?”

“Of course it is; what else am I going to do to pass the time?”


	2. Chapter 2

“Arthur,” Gwen pokes her head around the corner of his bedroom door, smiling. “You have a visitor. Shall I bring him back?”

His brows draw together. “Is it my father?”

“No, dear. A young man named Leon?”

The breath punches out of him, and he pushes himself to his feet, straightens his clothes. “Yes, yes, bring him back, please.”

Gwen’s smile widens at his enthusiasm, and then she’s gone, just to return a few moments later – after Arthur frantically tried to make his side of the room look less like a hospital bedroom – with a tall man with shaggy hair and a dark beard in tow. She leaves them alone, closing the door behind her with a soft well-meaning click.

Arthur stares at him for what is probably a beat too long because Leon clears his throat and steps toward him, his hand brushing against Arthur’s waist. He leans into him a little, lets him press their mouths together, lets Leon’s hand curl around the nape of his neck as they kiss. He thinks back to their last time together – Arthur clutching at his back as he fucks him, Leon groaning low and harsh against his jaw when he comes, Arthur admitting he wanted to die, Leon telling him how stupid that was – and parts from him just enough to peer up into his face. “What are you doing here?”

Leon smiles, slight, hesitant. “I heard you were here, and I wanted to see you.”

Arthur swallows, nods, takes his hands and draws him over to sit next to him on the bed. “We weren’t speaking after – I mean. I thought we were through.”

“No. No, not at all.” Leon touches his knuckles to Arthur’s cheek. “I’m so sorry, Arthur. I didn’t realize – I thought you were being _dramatic_. You’ve done that, you know, said things to me just to get a rise out of me. I was so upset with you, that you’d say something like that to me, when I’m so in love with you.” Arthur drops his eyes, traces the lines in Leon’s palm with his fingertip. “But I didn’t know you were serious, Arthur. I would have listened if I had known. I’m so sorry.”

“Hush.” He clears his throat. “It’s nothing to be sorry for. Thank you for coming here. I wouldn’t expect anyone to want to come. Father doesn’t even come to visit me here, except for the visits with my psychiatrist to mark my progress.”

Leon squeezes his fingers, kisses him again, and Arthur lets him lay him back against the pillows, parting his legs a little to let him settle between them, tugging at Leon’s shirt to get it untucked from his trousers, so he can slide his hands under it and press against the small of his back – and how he’s _missed_ the feeling of warm, solid skin that wasn’t his own, and the yearning the thought calls up has him scrabbling for Leon’s belt, wanting it open, wanting in, and Leon gently presses him back. “Is this okay?” He pants out against the corner of his mouth. “You sure we won’t – you won’t be in trouble for this?”

“No, no.” Arthur slides his hand into his trousers, smiles breathlessly at the soft groan the action elicits. “It’s fine. The nurses won’t bother us.”

“Are you – God, Arthur, your _hands_ \- are you sure? They won’t mind?”

“They won’t, they won’t, I promise.” He pulls him down again to press their mouths together, losing himself to the soft grunts and groans that fall from Leon’s mouth as he brings him off.

It’s when they’re both sated, and mostly naked, tangled up sweaty together on the small bed, that Leon brushes his fingertips against Arthur’s shoulder, kisses his forehead. “When you get out of here, you should move in with me.”

He blinks lazily, wrinkles his nose. “Leon, we’ve slept together a few times. That’s all. We’re not even in a relationship.”

“Yes, I know, but I told you: I’m in love with you. I want to be with you. I’ll take care of you; you won’t ever be sad again. I’ll make sure of it.”

“I don’t want that, Leon. I don’t want to be taken care of.”

“Everyone wants to be taken care of.”

He pushes away from him a little. “I’m not everyone.”

Leon presses his lips together. “Just think about it, okay? You’re still recovering. When you’re away from all these… people, you’ll feel differently.”

“What does that mean? ‘Away from these people’?”

“Well, you know.” He shrugs, leans up on his elbow. “They’re unwell.”

“So am I.”

“Yes, but you’re just – you’re sad. Many of them, they have problems, don’t they? Real problems.”

“Are my problems not real, Leon?”

“That’s not what I meant, Arthur. These people will always be sick.”

“You don’t even know them,” he says fiercely, struggles out from the tangle of blankets to pull his pants and trousers back on.

Leon sits up, looking devastatingly handsome, all built muscles and soft curls of dark chest hair. “I didn’t mean anything by it, Arthur. I’m sure they’re all lovely.”

“Don’t patronize me,” he spits at him. “I think you should leave now.”

“Arthur…”

“Please leave now, Leon. Thank you for coming, but I think it would be for the best if you just went home.”

He stares at Arthur for a long moment before sliding out from between the blankets and collecting his clothes. Within five minutes, he’s gone, and Arthur is dropping onto the edge of his bed, uncapping his pen and opening his journal, scribbling furiously inside of it.

***

Lance speaks without looking up from the jigsaw puzzle – of a Thomas Kinkade painting – that he’s focused on putting together. “Merlin’s in solitary again.”

Arthur looks to Percy for confirmation of this fact before responding. “Why’s that?”

“He saw that hot man go into your room.” Gwaine grins wolfishly. “I think he may have been just a tad jealous. He thinks you’re his, you know.”

Arthur pretends not to hear this information as he curls up in the corner of the couch and opens his book.

***

May brings warmth and flowers and day trips to town led by Gwen and a small army of nurses to keep them in line. Arthur has never much cared for ice cream, but he has a small vanilla cone anyway because the idea of sitting side-by-side in the sunshine eating ice cream with Merlin makes something flood through his chest, pleasant and tingling.

Gwaine gets in trouble within the first ten minutes. (He flirts outrageously with the employee serving them, going so far as to suck the tip of his ice cream into his mouth in the lewdest way he can possible manage.) Gwen is still scolding him, and Merlin is still laughing when the small group relocates to a park nearby to enjoy the day.

“Did you see the look on his face though? I thought he was going to piss himself and run away screaming.”

Arthur shakes his head, watches as Merlin licks his chocolate ice cream in one neat sweep with the flat of his tongue. “Gwaine really does know how to cause a scene, doesn’t he? I’m surprised he gets privileges when he behaves like that.”

“There are worse things than being a troublemaker, hm?” Merlin tilts his head onto Arthur’s shoulder, closing his eyes. “He could be a psychopath – they kill people, don’t they? At least sometimes.”

“Aren’t you a psychopath?”

“I don’t know. I am psychotic. Does one have to be a psychopath if one is psychotic?”

Arthur’s lips quirk a little at the formal phrasing of the sentence. “I’m not sure. You’ll have to take that up with your doctor.”

Merlin bursts into a fit of giggles, nuzzles at Arthur’s neck, earning himself a scolding from Gwen about “appropriate ways of showing affection.” He sticks his tongue out at her in response.

“I’ll show her appropriate affection.” Merlin mumbles, sighs dramatically.

“What would you deem appropriate?”

He looks up at Arthur, smiles slowly, but before he can respond, he’s cut off by a shout of, “No fuckin’ way! Merlin Emrys!”

Merlin’s face loses its color at an alarming rate, and the curves of his mouth and eyes soften and dip; he looks suddenly like a child who’s popped his balloon – startled and devastated. Still, he smiles up at the man in an unerringly polite way; it barely suits his face. Arthur’s too used to his wolfish, dimpled grins and the sense that he always seems to be biting his tongue. “Val! Hello.”

“It’s been a while, hasn’t it, mate?” The stocky man – dark hair, sharp nose, wide smile – Val – laughs, propping his hands on his hips. “Not seen you since exams.”

“A few years now, yeah.”

“What’ve you been up to? I take it you didn’t head off to university with the rest of the clever lads, if you’re here.”

“No, I’m, um, takin’ a year out, actually.”

“Ah, that’s too bad. They used to say you were the cleverest in school.”

Merlin ducks his head. “I wouldn’t say that. Just worked hard’s all.”

Val nods, looks over at Arthur. “Who’s this now? Boyfriend?”

“Oh.” Arthur shakes his head. “No. Friends.” He blinks over at Merlin, who’s glowering at him. “Friends, right?”

“Yeah.” Merlin agrees, lifting his eyes to Val’s face again. “Friends.”

Val nods slowly, and his eyes seem to take in the group around them for the first time: Percy and Gwaine wrestling on the lawn, Lance sitting close beside Gwen reading to her while she knits and smiles, Freya using colored pencils in a coloring book she’s laid out in the grass in front of her. He gapes for a moment. “Oh, my god. You’re – Claymoore, right? You’re living at Claymoore!”

Merlin focuses on chipping the dirt out from under his thumbnail.

“You’re one of these nutters, aren’t you?” He laughs, half-incredulous, half-mean. Arthur thinks he’ll be on the phone spreading the word the moment he walks away. Arthur thinks he was probably the source of a lot of Merlin’s bruises and scraped knees. “It’s probably about that thing you do, isn’t it? That magic thing! I knew you were fucking weird!”

Merlin’s lips press tightly together, and he doesn’t speak, staring deliberately at the toes of Val’s shoes, like a lack of reaction will make him go away faster. That’s what they say about bullies, isn’t it? Ignore them and they’ll get bored?

Val isn’t finished yet though. “I remember when you used to think you could magic us all way. So fuckin’ high and mighty – so sure you were better’n all the rest of us because you had _magic_. No one thought you were cool, you know. Everyone thought you were just _mad_ , and look at that! It appears you are!”

Gwen has noticed the exchange now and is watching them carefully, too far away to hear completely what’s being said, too close to not hear their tones. Arthur clears his throat. “I think you should go now, mate. We’re trying to have a nice day out.”

Val scoffs. “Yeah, I bet you don’t get too many of those. Don’t want the loonies out and about too much.” He wiggles his fingers at him, as if that indicates the state of the group’s psychological health. “What’re you in for, huh? I bet you’re just as crazy as him, yeah?”

“Don’t talk to him that way.” Merlin bites out. “He’s done nothing to deserve it.”

“Sure he has! I think all of you should be locked away for good – him especially! Since he’s taken up with you, he must be incredibly – _oof_!”

Arthur gapes as Merlin launches himself off the ground and pummels into Val, tackling him to the ground. He straddles his chest, manages to punch him square in the face, before Val is wrestling and wiggling him onto his back, and then Gwaine has shot headfirst into him, knocking him onto his side, and it’s suddenly not Merlin’s fight at all anymore, and Gwen is yelling and Freya is crying and Merlin is wiping blood from his lip where Gwaine jolted an elbow into his chin, and Arthur just closes his eyes and wishes for silence.

***

Arthur has never heard Gaius yell before. He’s known the man most of his life; when he was young, Uther had regular appointments with him in his study – presumably to discuss Arthur and how unwanted he was, how much Uther didn’t want to care for him now that his wife is dead. He supposed Gaius must have made some success, since he never found himself in the foster care system or out on the street – not even when he came of age or swallowed most of a bottle of pills.

But Gaius is yelling now – a cherry-colored anger in his cheeks and lips and words. “- so very irresponsible! I expect more from you, Mr. Pendragon. I expect you to set a good example for the rest of our patients, because _you_ are stable and secure and not in any way mentally unsound! This behavior is unacceptable and will not go unpunished; do you understand me?”

“I’m not actually sure what I’ve done wrong, Doctor.” Arthur lights a cigarette. “I didn’t participate in the fight. I have no injuries and caused no injuries. I was just sat there and then Merlin attacked him.”

“You _allowed_ it, Arthur.”

“I allowed it?” he repeats, ticking ash rather deliberately on Gaius’s Indian rug. “The last time I checked, I am not Merlin’s keeper. If anyone should be getting scolded for allowing the fight to happen, it should be Gwen. She was the one meant to look after us, and she didn’t prevent it from happening.”

“It is not your place to discuss the disciplinary regulations of the staff here, Mr. Pendragon.”

“Oh, I see.” He purses his lips, pushes smoke out into the air. “But I am supposed to take responsibility for the actions of my fellow patients. If that’s the case, then I have to speak my mind: as far as I’m concerned, that twat got what was coming to him.”

“Mr. Pendragon!”

“I’m only telling the truth. Part of me wishes I _had_ been a part of the fight. He would have deserved it.” He leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “And do you _really_ think that telling a schizophrenic boy that he’s a nutter and deserves to be locked away forever wasn’t at least a little deserving of some kind of karma?” A moment passes. The clock ticks on the wall above Gaius’s head. No answer comes. Arthur leans back again, drags from his cigarette. “I didn’t think so.”

***

It’s two days before Arthur sees Merlin again. He knows he’s been in solitary, if Freya is anything to go by. She spends long minutes standing on her toes at the door of that locked room, whispering, until a nurse or orderly scolds here away with a reminder that “solitary” means “alone.”

Now Merlin lies curled on his side on Arthur’s bed, his head tucked into his lap – soft and warm and quiet as a kitten – listening to Gwaine speak in excited whispers on the phone.

“What d’you think he’s on about?” Arthur murmurs distractedly, lifting his eyes from the book – The Bell Jar – he’s pretending to read. His fingers drag across Merlin’s scalp, slow and easy.

Merlin shrugs – a jerky movement, like slamming on brakes. “Probably bragging about his black eye to Elena. That’s his sister. She’s the only one who puts up with him anymore.”

Arthur has no comment for that. “How’s your lip?” he asks instead.

Merlin touches the tips of long fingers to it; in the hours after the brawl, his mouth bloomed red and angry, enough for Merlin to shatter into soft whimpers at the gentle prodding of the physician. Arthur held his hand until Gwen called for him to escort him to his appointment with Gaius, and Merlin was escorted away to receive his punishment.

“It hurts,” he says quietly. He seems smaller to Arthur. He doesn’t fill up the whole room like he did two days ago. He is fragile - a dandelion – knocked askew by the shortest puff of breath. “It’s true, what he said.”

“What is?” Arthur presses his fingertips against Merlin’s temple, rubbing little circles.

Merlin makes a small hurt sound that Arthur doesn’t know whether to interpret as displeasure or enjoyment. His fingers still. Merlin butts his head up against his hand, so he resumes his little massage. “About me thinking I had magic. It’s why I’m here.” He pauses, bites into his lip, winces – bites harder until Arthur clicks his tongue and thumbs at his lip so he lets it go. “My mum always thought it was harmless, so she never thought to have me see someone about it. And I never thought it wasn’t true. I mean – she’s told me I was magic since I was young and never corrected me.”

“Maybe she thought you’d grow out of it, once you realized you couldn’t _actually_ do anything magic?”

“Well, the schizophrenia helped there.” His laugh is dark. “I’ve deluded myself into actually believing I could do magic my whole life.” He pauses. “Right before my exams, my mum asked me what I wanted to do. Did I want to get a job? Did I want to go to university? I said I wanted to help people with my magic. I must have sounded mad.”

“You were.” Arthur tugs his hair, and a smile tugs at Merlin’s mouth. “What did she do?”

“Nothing then. She waited until I took my exams and then took me to a psychiatrist, who explained to me that I showed signs of schizophrenia. He convinced my mother I should be institutionalized, and – I wanted to set her mind at ease so I came here.” He huffs through his nose. “It’s funny – I didn’t believe them. Not even when I packed my things to move in here. I thought they just weren’t ready to accept my magic. I wasn’t mad; they were just scared.”

“When did you realize that they were right?”

“When I started on the antipsychotics probably.” He nuzzles his nose against Arthur’s knee. “Then it just seemed – well, why would I want to leave here? What’ve I got anywhere else? The one thing I always thought made me special – it’s a lie. A fairytale my mother told me so I’d sleep with a smile on my face. Fairytales aren’t much help in the real world, are they?”

Arthur thinks about it for a long moment, considers lying for reasons he can’t explain to himself. “No, I’d say they’re not.”

***

Gwaine’s whispered telephone conversation seems not to have been with his sister, if the hushed conversations among the patients are anything to go by. They fade off rather suddenly when Arthur joins them, and he’s not sure what that means; a clawing feeling up his spine tries to convince him they’ve been talking about him, but it seems like something else – something bigger, to do with all of them. And then, abruptly – with the restless clicking of nurses’ heels as they patrol the hallways – the still, watchful eyes of the patients as they pass – Arthur understands.

He finds Gwaine, perched on the edge of his bed, counting money onto his bedspread. There’s only one reason someone hear would need to know how much they have. “When?”

Gwaine looks up, face already split wide with his grin. “Tonight, I think. I have a friend who’s putting me up. I tried to talk Lance into joining me; I thought he’d do best on the outside.” Arthur doesn’t know whether to find it endearing or annoying that Gwaine always talks like they’re in a prison. “He won’t come though. Right now, it’s just me.” He blinks. “Why don’t _you_ come? You barely need to be in here anyway.”

Arthur stuffs his fingers into his pockets, glances out the window. “It’s not like I haven’t thought about it,” he says quietly. “It would be so easy to get out of here, if we really wanted to.” They both know what he’s talking about – the passageway – a tunnel built during the war, when this hospital was still for tuberculosis victims – used to hide or escape if the bombs started dropping here.

“So come with me.” Gwaine nudges his ankle with his bare toes. “I could use the company. And I’ve grown to quite like having you as a roommate.”

“Maybe.” Arthur offers, but they both know it means no, and they both know why.

***

“Gwaine’s planning to run away.” Merlin announces, halfheartedly tapping his long fingers against the edge of his bongo drum. They’re sitting on the floor in the music room – ironically to find silence from the bustle the rest of the floor seems to have. “He told me this morning.”

“I know.” Arthur murmurs, nudging their shoulders together. “He asked me if I wanted to come with him.”

Merlin’s quiet for a long time, his fingers still. “Are you going to go?”

“Not without you.”

His responding smile – like sunshine underneath his skin – is worth it. “Really?”

“Really.”

He beats a happy little tune on his drum, pauses, and twists himself in half to cup Arthur’s cheek and draw him in to press their mouths together. He sits very still for a moment, kissing him back carefully, slowly, like Merlin will flee if approached too quickly, and finally lifts his hand to touch his fingertips to Merlin’s jaw. They’re both smiling when they part, and Merlin rubs their noses together, huffing out a laugh. “I’ll go with you.” He nods, resolute. “If you want me to. If you want to leave, I’ll go with you.”

Arthur curls his hands around Merlin’s, squeezes them gently, and kisses him again.

***

Later, Arthur sits on his bed and opens his notebook, writes _Merlin_ across the top of the page and alphabetically lists every feeling he has for him.

***

The tunnel smells dank – like moss and storm drains and wet laundry. It’s clear it hasn’t been used in years – decades, maybe – except for the presence of dozens of cigarette butts and, in one corner, a scatter of playing cards – relics of patients passed.

Arthur squeezes Merlin’s hand tighter than is probably necessary, but Merlin stays close to his side anyway, a small backpack tucked close into the curve of his shoulder. He doesn’t seem afraid, and that makes sense; Merlin’s run away before. Arthur figures this must be his first time leaving with no intention of coming back.

Gwaine soldiers on ahead of them, almost too loud; it’s as if he doesn’t care if he’s caught. Arthur wonders how long he’s been planning this, how long he’s been sorting out the method of his escape. He tries to imagine living out his life at Claymoore. He tries to remember how long Gwaine has lived here already. He decides he doesn’t blame him for his reckless desire to leave.

It takes the combined effort of Arthur’s and Gwaine’s shoulders to open the door. Outside, the moon hangs low in the sky – the smudged orange of sherbet – and Arthur pulls in several deep breaths through his nose. Merlin squeezes his fingers, peers up at the sky. “I never have to go inside again,” he murmurs, wondrous.

“No, you don’t.” Gwaine plants his hands on his hips, as if satisfied with a good day’s work. “We could live out under the stars if we like! But right now, we have to get going; they’ll notice we’re gone any minute, and we don’t want to be dawdling outside the building when they start looking for us.”

They trudge off across the grounds, down toward the clusters of firefly lights that signify town. Arthur tries to pick out the house of his father – thinks that the light must be bigger and brighter than the rest – maybe a dozen lights all his own. He’ll point himself as far away from those lights as he can.

“This friend of yours – who is he?” Arthur loses his balance, startled by the sharp crack of a twig under his heel.

“ _She_ is someone I know quite well.” Gwaine flashes a grin over his shoulder. “Don’t worry, Arthur; I’ve already spoken with her. We’ll have a warm bed waiting for us.”

***

Morgana is beautiful – beautiful enough that Merlin goes shy and tense when she opens the door – practically vibrating with it, like he’s waiting to run away. Her pale green eyes give the impression that she’s waiting for the knife that’s certainly hidden under jackets or inside waistbands and she only answers the door after the clicking of a succession of locks.

Her robe is cinched tightly at her hips, and the curve of her neck is like the stalk of a lily as she leads them through the foyer to her kitchen. “I’ve made up the pullout sofa. Two of you can sleep there. Or all three of you. I don’t care. Do what you like.” She puts the kettle on without thought – an action born of habit and comfort – something to do in unfamiliar situations. “If you want pancakes in the morning, there’s a market on the corner. You could pick up the ingredients there. I’ll leave money on the counter for you.”

“Thank you.” Arthur offers. “We shouldn’t be here too long tomorrow; we’re trying to catch a train to Paris.”

Morgana casts a look in his direction that screams of apathy. “I don’t get out of bed before nine on weekends, so don’t be too loud if you’re awake early in the morning.” She sets a teacup on the counter, lays a teabag neatly in it and only then seems to realize she has guests. She retrieves three more - they match – and repeats the action.

Gwaine has made himself comfortable at the island counter, leaned back in his chair with the easy smile of someone who knows he’s perfectly welcome – even when he’s not. Merlin stands shifting from foot to foot in the doorway, as if he’s waiting for the police to bear down on the house and drag them back to Claymoore. Arthur steps over toward him, closes his fingers around his wrist, rubbing his thumb over his pulse. “How do you and Gwaine know each other?” He forces the question out, chipping deliberately at the silence in the room.

Morgana’s head tilts slightly to the left, and Arthur knows the posture well enough – from years of living with his father – to know that she is observing Gwaine carefully from the corner of her right eye and wants him to be aware of it. Gwaine, however, can’t ever be bothered with social cues or hints, and his grin is nothing short of wolfish. “Morgana got out of Claymoore about a month before you went in, Arthur. Her _dad_ paid for a private flat for her.”

“Don’t say it like that,” she snaps, voice like cut glass. “Daddy just knows I’m not suited for a hospital environment.”

“No, _Daddy_ knows he can’t be alone with you when you’re in a hospital environment.”

Morgana’s hands are surprisingly steady as she pours the hot water into the teacups. “I vomit when I eat anything besides his food. Daddy’s a chef.” She explains over her shoulder to Arthur and Merlin, her hard chin lifted. “He’s taking care of me. He pays my rent. Gwaine should be expressing more gratitude for him; if it wasn’t for him, he wouldn’t have anywhere to live right now.”

Gwaine makes a rather obscene gesture with his fist. “I’m not nearly as dependent on him as you are.”

“Gwaine, that’s enough.” Merlin says quietly, stepping over toward Morgana at the counter to help her carry the tea to the table. “She’s doing a nice thing for us. Being cruel isn’t a good way to show gratitude.”

Morgana’s eyebrows lower. “I don’t need you to defend me. I’m perfectly capable on my own.”

He flushes, lips parted, and steps back, shaking his head. “No. I know that. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t worry.” Gwaine stretches his arms over his head. “Her daddy will fuck her straight, won’t he? Get all the kinks worked out of her.”

“Gwaine!” Arthur all but shouts, appalled, then turns wide eyes at Morgana. “I am so sorry. I don’t – I don’t know why he’s behaving this way.”

“I’m a _sociopath_ , Arthur.” Gwaine pushes his chair back, hops to his feet. “I have a doctor’s permission to behave however I like.”

“That’s not how it works, Gwaine.” Merlin says firmly, more serious than Arthur’s ever seen him. “You should apologize.”

Gwaine huffs out a little laugh. He turns and bows low, mocking, to Morgana. “I apologize for speaking the truth, miss. I won’t discuss your torrid love affair with your father – or how much you like it – ever again.”

Morgana takes a sip of her tea, eyebrows arched darkly over the rim of her cup. She doesn’t respond to Gwaine but does speak to Arthur. “I don’t much care what your plans are once you’ve left my house – which I pray you do soon – but my only suggestion is to part ways with this cretin as soon as possible. Good night. I hope your time in Paris is lovely.” Her footsteps on the staircase are light, and there are two soft clicks when she arrives at the top – the door closing and a lock sliding into place.

Merlin glowers at Gwaine. “That was just unkind.”

“Oh shut up. You know it’s true!”

“The validity of your statements does not justify the humiliation you just caused her.” Arthur puts in, fingers tight on the edge of the counter. “In the morning, I suggest you apologize or you’ll have to find other companions to go with you to Paris.”

He presses his lips together, looks on the verge of arguing, until he notices Merlin nodding slightly in agreement with Arthur. “Alright, fine. Christ, if I’d known you two would be so sensitive, I might’ve reconsidered who to travel with.”

They ignore him and promptly banish him to a large armchair for sleep. They take the pull-out bed, Merlin curls kitten-like into Arthur’s side, his hand resting solid and warm against his stomach. He kisses his neck – just barely-there presses of lips to skin – until he falls asleep, nosing in under his ear and sighing. Arthur lies awake for a long time, listening to the soft sounds of sleep in the room, in the house – the creaking staircase – the gurgle and _clunk_ of the pipes in the bathroom and kitchen – the screech of nighttime animals at the window – and wonders what he’s doing here.

***

He’s the last to wake. He knows this because Merlin shakes him to consciousness, jolting him hard enough that his head smacks against the back of the couch. It’s enough to punch the last particles of sleep from the edges of his mind, and he pushes himself up on his elbows. “What is it?” he asks gruffly, rubbing his eyes with his index finger and thumb.

“It’s – I –” Merlin wrings his hands a little, and Arthur’s never seen him look so helpless, so small. “Morgana – she’s – Gwaine went up to apologize like you told him too, and he knocked on the bathroom door because the light was on and there was music playing and he thought she was just getting ready for the day and she didn’t answer so he started yelling at her about being up there trying to apologize so I ran upstairs because I thought that wasn’t helping, and he just opened the door and she was – I - _Arthur_.” His face crumples, and he melts onto the bed, kneading anxiously at Arthur’s shoulders.

He kisses his forehead and pushes himself over him and off the bed, running up the stairs. He gags almost before he sees it – the thick smell of blood reaching him first. She’s laid out in her bathtub in a lavender silk nightgown, the lily-white of her knees and ankles arranged curled together as if she’s sleeping. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he realizes how neat she was – her wrists dipped under the water, the blood pooling around her. Her eyes are open, face tilted toward the window, searching for a last ray of sun.

He thinks he should feel the same terror and shock that Merlin does. He thinks he should be horrified. He just wonders if she felt all the same things that he did, and mostly just feels sad.

***

They wait on the front steps while the police take the body away. Arthur keeps his arm tucked carefully around Merlin’s shoulders when the stretcher thumps down the stairs to be loaded into the quiet ambulance. Morgause and Gaius have both arrived – Morgause because she was Morgana’s doctor – Gaius because Arthur didn’t know who else to call – and are speaking with the police. Gwaine is long gone.

Merlin tucks his head onto Arthur’s shoulder. “Do you think Will looked like that, when they found him?” he asks quietly.

It takes him a moment to process the question – Who is Will? – Why would he look like that? – before he answers. “I don’t know.”

“Do you think it hurt, for her to die like that?”

“No. I think she must have felt… relieved.”

He can feel Merlin’s eyes focusing on the small part of his face – the underside of his jaw – that he can see from that angle. There are questions written in the gaze, but he doesn’t ask those. Instead, he asks, “What do we do now?”

Arthur takes a deep breath. “We should go back – with the doctors. We – maybe they won’t make us go in a police car, if we tell them we want to go back.”

“We were going to run away.”

“We shouldn’t. I was wrong.”

Merlin nods, swallows hard. When Gaius approaches them, they stand and allow themselves to be led back to the psychiatrists’ car, piled into the backseat. Morgause sets Merlin’s small bag in his lap and he clutches it tightly in the hook of his arm, his other hand knotted with Arthur’s.

When they arrive at the hospital, they part to go to their separate rooms. There is no punishment for either of them.

***

Gaius looks at him over his glasses. For the first time in many sessions, he doesn’t ask to see his journal. “How have you been feeling, Arthur?”

He rubs his hands against his jeans, takes a deep breath. “I feel different.”

“Different from other people? Or different than you felt before?”

“The second one.” He points at him, as if choosing a door. “When I saw her-”

“Morgana?”

“Yes. When I saw her, I thought about her. I mean, I thought about myself while thinking about her. And I wanted to _save_ her.”

“How does that make you feel?”

“I don’t know. When I came here, I wanted to _be_ her. I would have – I don’t know – praised anyone who worked out how to do it right.”

“‘It’ being suicide?”

“Mhm.”

“And now you feel like you’ve turned a corner from that.”

“I do. I don’t feel – I’m not ‘cured’ or anything. I don’t know if I have anything that needs curing. I just – I want to try now. I want to help fix me.”

Gaius smiles gently, nods. “Alright. Then let’s fix you.”

***

Merlin sleeps wrapped tight around Arthur most nights. The nurses don’t protest, especially since neither seem to sleep well without the other – Merlin for anxiety over being alone and Arthur for worry over Merlin – and Arthur appreciates the leniency.

Tonight, they’re lying side-by-side - Merlin’s hands on Arthur’s face, Arthur’s on the small of Merlin’s back - sharing slow kisses. Merlin rakes his fingers through Arthur’s hair, touches his fingertips to his lips. His lip quirks up when Arthur kisses his fingers, and he lifts his eyes to Arthur’s face. “Will you write me letters when you leave?” he asks quietly.

“No.” Arthur nuzzles into his hand. “Why would I write you letters? I’ll see you every day.”

Merlin’s quiet for a long time, breathing loudly in the small room. “You still think I can leave here?”

“Of course I do.” He frowns. “That’s never been a question.”

He graces him with a smile he hasn’t seen in ages, and Arthur can see magic shimmering under his skin. He wraps his arms around Arthur’s middle, kisses his chin. “I’ll write to you if I get out first.”

“Don’t be silly. We’re going together.”

***

Of course, that’s not the way it happens. Arthur is discharged three weeks later. He considers visiting, seeing the people he’s come to feel so close to there, but he doesn’t want to see that crumpled look on Merlin’s face when he has to leave again.

He doesn’t move back into his father’s home, the consequence of which is silence. He applies for university, and he starts in the autumn, reading English. He doesn’t always know why he’s doing it, and sometimes he feels lost and alone and unsure where to begin with picking up the pieces of himself and reshaping them into something that suits him better.

He writes constantly – his feelings (lists and lists and lists of them), daily letters to Merlin, the story of the beautiful girl Morgana and her tragic end – and sometimes, he almost feels like they’re good enough to let someone read. He knows Merlin will be the only one who ever sees any of them, but that’s a start.

And when that lovely dark-haired boy appears at his door, with a suitcase in hand and a grin on his face, like he’s just come home from a world-wide adventure and not years spent in a psychiatric hospital, he kisses him right there on the porch. Merlin giggles and says, “Why, hello to you too.” And Arthur figures right now, it’s not so crazy to believe in magic.


End file.
